


Grow Up

by Notsyrups



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 11:06:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18164387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notsyrups/pseuds/Notsyrups
Summary: Based on the clip of Roger destroying his drumkit after a concert.





	Grow Up

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Every time I see that gif of Roger trashing his set I get fuckin pissed - like boy, are you gonna clean that shit up? No. Go do that. Either way, here’s some Roger/Reader stuff lmao
> 
> Warnings: A smidge of cursin’

You had been a friend of Queen since the Smile days – you studied Psychology in University with them, and often went to their gigs to de-stress from your workload. You never really met Tim, but to be honest you didn’t really care.

Your freshman roommate Mary, who then became your flat mate, introduced you to the boys after Freddie joined. You and their drummer, Roger, had gotten on well. You both were little shits to each other, but the bond between the two of you had grown strong rather quickly. Weird guys at the bar would try to hit on you, and Roger would swoop in and either scare them off, or pretend you were his girlfriend and take you away. Conversely, you were always there to calm Roger down when he got a bit mad. In the early days, you stopped him from punching the bouncers at the various bars they performed at. You talked him down from throwing his new TV out the window when he couldn’t figure out how to get it to work. Your relationship was symbiotic, and strong. When Queen picked up traction, they invited you to come along if not as a friend than as the group’s therapist. Really, you were just there as a friend.

The year is 1974, and you were standing in the wings at the Rainbow Theater, watching Queen perform. The whole concert went well, to you at least. The set wrapped up, and you saw John playing close to Roger’s kit. Roger mouthed something to him you couldn’t quite make out, and John quickly dance-shuffled away from the drummer. John shot a look in your general direction, his eyes a bit wide. Your eyebrow raises, and you hear the first clang.

Roger starts tearing apart his kit. A push here and there to his cymbals, a kick to the bass, and shoves to his snares. Freddie turns to the crowd and laughs nervously, obviously trying to play it off like its one of those wacky things Rock-N-Roll stars do, and Brian turns to look at Roger with the most “dude, what the fuck” looks you’ve ever seen.

A final “fuck” is heard and Roger pushes the last drum off the risers, and storms off stage in your direction. He doesn’t pay you any attention when you ask what happened and shoves your shoulder with his to move past you. The curtains close, and the roadies rush out to the kit to try to assess the damage.

You purse your lips, this was ridiculous. You turn to walk after Roger, who was smoking by an exit. “Hey,” you say, crossing your arms.

“Don’t start,” Roger says, rolling his eyes. He takes a long drag from his cigarette and blows the smoke out from his nose. “I played like shit.”

You scoff, “you did not play like shit. But you’re acting like a little baby bitch.” You say, biting the last word. “Even if you did play like shit, it’s no excuse to wreck your kit.” Your hands fly around when you talk, and Roger turns to you, putting his cigarette out on the wall behind him.

His eyes narrow at you, and you continue anyways. “That shit is expensive, jerk. Plus, it is totally unfair to make the roadies clean it up. GROW UP and march your bitch ass back out there and pick up your own kit.” Roger’s eyes widened at your word use. He looked down for a moment and huffed.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He rubs the back of his neck, “I’m sorry. I just – I take my playing very seriously and I’m pissed I didn’t do better.” You shake your head and place your hands on his arms.

“I’d still think you’re the best drummer no matter how many,” you exaggerate the next words, “shitty sets,” he smiles, “you play.”

He reaches up to ruffle your hair. “I better go help them,” you give him a pointed glare, “I mean – I’ll go clean it up.” You nod.

“Don’t pressure them to help you.” You say. He sighs, and nods in agreement.

He waves you off and walks back onstage, apologizing to the roadies and they all swoon at how kind he is for helping. You laugh and the headlines the next day talk about how Roger helped pick up his kit, and how the roadies are even stronger fans than before.


End file.
